


Bottles, Bibles and Bugs

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, F/M, Fic, M/M, Pre-Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clinton shook his head. This was the thin end of the wedge, the top of the slippery slope, but with Ruiz's taunts still ringing in his ears, he couldn't bring himself to backtrack. No regrets. "Just, whatever you do, try not to get yourself arrested."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottles, Bibles and Bugs

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1.03. Many thanks to mergatrude for beta. <3

Mozzie was sitting at the table in El's apartment. He'd helped himself to a glass of wine and read half a dozen Batman comics, all while studiously ignoring the parcel squatting on the corner of the table. It was from a law firm, Handelman, Moreau and Associates, sent to El at her post office box, which Mozzie regularly cleared on her behalf in the interests of keeping it off the FBI's radar.

Mozzie could feel the parcel radiating mystery -- and not the good kind. He'd considered losing it on the way over, leaving it on the subway or letting it be stolen by rabid squirrels in the park, except that El would never forgive him if she found out and, well, if he were honest, he was curious. Maybe it was valuable. Maybe El had inherited a presidential pardon and an ill-gotten fortune. Maybe she'd share the latter with her long-standing associate.

She got home late, by which time Mozzie had moved on to Tolstoy. She was whistling under her breath, and she broke into a smile when she saw him. "Hey, Moz! How's tricks?"

"Business is ticking over," he told her vaguely. He paused while she pulled off her short Titian wig and the stocking cap underneath and freed her tumble of real hair, and then he pointed at the parcel. "I brought you something."

El's eyes lit up, and she all but clapped her hands. "Presents?"

"It's from a law firm," warned Mozzie. "It could be dangerous."

"Oh please." El waved that aside, pulled a Swiss army knife from her pocket and neatly slit the packaging. Inside the brown paper was a box, and inside the box was a thick, parchment envelope, a nest of wood shavings, and an empty '91 Bordeaux bottle.

"Alex," said Mozzie. He should have given it to the squirrels, bribed them with nuts to bury it where no one would ever find it.

"Looks like it." El frowned and opened the envelope. When she pulled out the folded sheet of letterhead, a key fell onto the table. She picked it up, examined it for a moment, then returned to the letter. "Dear Ms. Mitchell," she read aloud. "We are sending you this parcel on behalf of Ms. Alexandra Hunter. She instructed us that if she ceased to maintain contact for a period greater than two weeks, we were to send it to you. We last heard from Ms. Hunter on October 18, so the instruction has taken effect--" El looked up, her eyes wide. "Moz."

"So she's gone silent and no one's seen her in a while. That doesn't mean she's in trouble."

"Don't split hairs. You don't have that many to spare."

Mozzie scowled. "It could be a trap. Maybe she's messing with your head. Again."

"If she is, it's working." El sat down at the table and handed him the key. "We have to find her."

The key was still warm from her fingers, its ridges fresh-cut and sharp. It was also annoyingly free of any identifying marks. It could open any safe, safety deposit box or locker from here to the West Coast. "I expect you want me to find out what this opens."

"I'd appreciate it." She picked the Bordeaux bottle out of the box. "This has to be a clue. Wine cellar, maybe? An auction house?"

"Bordeaux," said Mozzie, distracted. "Such a shame it's empty."

"You know, the first time we filled it was for--"

"Adler," finished Mozzie, the same time El said it. They stared at each other for a long, electric moment. Mozzie put the key on the table with a click.

"It couldn't be," said El.

"He disappeared."

"So has Alex."

Mozzie shook himself. "You're being paranoid."

A flash of humor crossed El's face. "Coming from you, that's, I don't know, a compliment?"

"Alex is probably in Venice, partying with minor royalty and picking pockets, and she lost track of time and forgot to check in with the law firm."

"Maybe," said El. She propped her foot on the chair at the head of the table and pulled up her pant leg. Her tracking anklet winked malevolently at them. "This would be so much easier without the jewelry."

Mozzie tried to be the voice of reason. "If you cut the anklet, you can't mess around."

"I'll only get one chance," El agreed. "I assume you have a plan?"

"Nowhere English-speaking," said Mozzie, promptly. "Eastern Europe, for starters. Budapest, then Prague. Then anywhere you want."

El put her chin in her hands. Her eyes were wide and worried. "Alex--"

"Can take care of herself," said Mozzie ruthlessly. El was too conscientious sometimes, too loyal. Someone had to protect her from her own softer side.

"She's never sent a distress call before." El ran her hand through her hair and gestured for the key. "I can't leave, Moz. Not until I know she's safe."

Mozzie sighed heavily and gave it to her. "I know, I know. You owe her." He poured himself another glass of wine. "I don't suppose you're ever going to share the story behind that."

El, who'd been making the key dance over the backs of her fingers, palmed it with a magician's flourish and continued as if she hadn't heard the question. "Anyway, I can't cut the anklet this week. We have to retrieve a missing bible."

"Someone stole a bible?" Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Even I wouldn't stoop that low."

"Not just any old bible, either. A magic bible." El's eyes lit up, and Mozzie knew she was about to start spouting fairy stories.

"You're enjoying it," he said flatly. "Helping the Suit."

She shrugged. "Getting a look at the other team's playbook."

"Mmm." Mozzie eyed her thoughtfully. "That's all it is?"

"What else would it be?" El reached across the table and made the key reappear somewhere in the vicinity of his nose, probably because she couldn't reach his ear. Mozzie took it off her again, and she stood up and went to get a wine glass so she could relieve him of the last of the wine. "They're Feds, Moz. They carry badges and guns, and they think warrant law is light reading. It's not like I'm ever going to belong there."

Mozzie narrowed his eyes and tried to decide if she was fooling herself or simply trying to fool him. "You like Jones. And you like the one with the puppy."

El rolled her eyes. "I'm playing along -- that was always the plan. And Burke's fun to tease. I have to pass the time somehow."

There was a familiar smile playing about the corners of her mouth, mischief and recklessness. Mozzie relaxed. "Okay, fine. We stay, we rescue Alex, and then Europe."

"And then Europe," repeated El. "Maybe Germany. It's been an age since I had real _apfelstrudel_." Her eyes went dreamy and she started waxing lyrical about European desserts. 

Mozzie savored his last few mouthfuls of wine and felt himself relax, reassured that this stint with the G-men really was a con. Well, mostly reassured. With El, he reminded himself, you could never be one hundred percent sure of anything.

 

*

 

Mitchell was still in the car when Clinton got back from arguing with Hughes. She practically had her face pressed up against the glass, trying to see what was going on at the murder scene, but she'd stayed put. That was something. Clinton beckoned to her, and she was out of the car in a flash, striding towards him in her stylish pantsuit and sensible heels.

They should go back to the office, start searching for new leads on Barelli's bible, but Clinton needed some air first and it wasn't fair to leave Mitchell waiting in the stuffy SUV. That's what he told himself. He wasn't plotting anything. They went to a different part of the pier, away from Ruiz and his team.

Mitchell was silent for a while, the wind whipping her hair around her face. It was her real hair today, long and brunette. That hair got everywhere. Clinton sometimes found strands of it on his jacket when he got home, and occasionally, mysteriously, clinging to his socks. Every time, it felt like a metaphor for the way Mitchell was insinuating herself into his life, messy and feminine and trouble.

"We're off the case?" said Mitchell at last.

Clinton sat on an empty bench and waited till she joined him. "This is Organized Crime's floor show now. Agent Ruiz doesn't like to share."

Mitchell stuck out her tongue in the direction of the yellow crime scene tape and scurrying agents. "Was it a mob hit?"

Clinton shrugged and tried to consider the matter impartially. It was possible that Ruiz was right, but it didn't feel that way. "Not here. Not with all the bad blood in the water. Paul Ignazio would've known better than to meet a Maretti here alone, and the body hasn't been moved, so-- I don't think so."

"So what now?"

"Now I have to go back to the office," said Clinton flatly. "We still have a bible to find."

"But we can't find the bible if we don't investigate--"

Clinton glanced at her, her mulish expression reflecting everything he was feeling. He squinted out at the river. " _I_ have to go back to the office."

"Oh." Elizabeth was a fraction too slow at hiding her surprised grin -- or maybe she wanted him to see. She pushed her hair off her face and tilted her head at nothing for a moment, then, "Agent Jones, I like your style. Mind if I try it on?"

He glanced at her. "What?"

"Your jacket." She shivered theatrically. "I'm cold. You're a gentleman, right?"

"And a federal agent," said Clinton, but he was already peeling it off, letting the warm wind off the river tug at his shirt and tie. "If you--"

"I solemnly swear on the life of puppy Satchmo that I will not impersonate the FBI," said El.

There was a hectic light in her eye. She was going to do something outrageous, and worse, Clinton wanted her to. It was their case, dammit. He silently handed her the jacket, and she pulled it on, zipping it up and snuggling into it as if she really had been cold. Clinton shook his head. This was the thin end of the wedge, the top of the slippery slope, but with Ruiz's taunts still ringing in his ears, he couldn't bring himself to backtrack. No regrets. "Just, whatever you do, try not to get yourself arrested."

He let her take an early lunch and drove back to the office alone.

 

*

 

Lauren bypassed Marcus Fiametta's home security in a minute and a half and let herself and Burke into the apartment. It was spacious, filled with antiquities that she didn't need a PhD to see were real and worth a fortune. She looked around and whistled. "He's doing all right for a college professor."

"I'm betting this was paid for by crime, not academia." Burke stuck his head into the bedroom and came out scowling. "Black satin sheets. Maybe he's a gigolo too."

"He is pretty hot," said Lauren. She held up the bug. "Only one way to find out for sure."

Burke grunted and continued his sweep for evidence. "If we find the bible now, we can call the whole operation off."

"What's wrong with you?" Lauren watched him. Burke was known for being no-nonsense, but he wasn't usually this grumpy.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

Lauren raised an eyebrow. "Wish it was you in the fancy Italian Restaurant, on a date with Elizabeth Mitchell?"

"It's not a date, it's a sting," said Burke, flipping through Fiametta's CD collection.

"Aha!" Lauren grinned at him. 

"No. No, no, no." Burke came over. "I don't need overpriced Italian food -- not my style. I have a delicious devilled ham sandwich waiting for me in the van. Unless someone's eaten it in my absence."

"Not much danger of that," muttered Lauren. 

"What?"

"Gotta tell you, devilled ham never won fair lady's heart. Nor fair man's either, and definitely not fair con artist's. Mitchell is way above your pay grade, buddy." As she turned to see his reaction, she bumped a carved wooden vase, which teetered dangerously. It was only luck that she managed to grab it before it spilled paintbrushes and pencils all over the counter. "Phew, that was close."

Burke came to see what she was doing. "Can we focus, please? Let's lay the bug and get out of here."

Lauren dropped the bug in the wooden vase -- it was as good a place as any -- and patted him on the shoulder as she shoved him toward the door. "Come on, let's get you some devilled ham. You sound like you could use a blood sugar boost."

 

*

 

Neal got up early to finalize the catering order and venue booking for a fiftieth wedding anniversary. He had coffee and toast, and when Clinton still hadn't emerged by seven, Neal figured he'd take him some coffee in bed. 

But Clinton wasn't still peacefully sleeping; he was doing crunches on the bedroom floor, and going by the sweat stain on his undershirt, he'd been doing them for a while, a sure sign that he was stressing out.

Neal put the coffee cup on the dresser and sat on the end of the bed. "Everything okay?"

Clinton stopped and blotted his face on his t-shirt. "Big day. Fiametta has the bible. We're sending Mitchell in to buy it off him."

Neal whistled low. "You're giving her money."

"Fake wire transfer," said Clinton. "It's not that." He did half a dozen more crunches, then blew out a loud breath and scooted over to sit with his back against the dresser, facing Neal. "She has to convince Fiametta she's for real, which means -- she has to cut her tracker." 

_Oh._ Neal passed him the coffee and moved down to the floor, his feet on either side of Clinton's, watching him drink. "You think she'll run?"

"The book's worth half a million, and it's beautiful. I honestly don't know if she's capable of passing up that kind of opportunity. And if she screws up, she's back inside for good. _For good._ " Clinton frowned and swiped his t-shirt over his face again, wiping away the sweat trails and giving Neal a brief, enticing glimpse of his chest and stomach. Neal moved his foot to press against Clinton's, and Clinton shot him a rueful smile. "It's not just about today, though. It's like - you know, the first time you shoot a gun--"

Neal held up hands. "Not a gun guy, remember?"

"Hypothetically," said Clinton. "The first time anything -- the first time you have sex. The first time you say I love you. It's a big deal. There's a line you cross, and you're really aware you're crossing it. And every time after that, it gets easier, less conscious. Even if Elizabeth doesn't run today, she's cutting her tracker for the first time. The next time, it'll be easier."

"I think--" Neal considered for a moment, making sure he really meant it, wasn't just mouthing empty platitudes. "I think the important thing is she's playing for the right team. The more she does that, the easier it'll get. She doesn't want to let you down, babe."

Clinton sighed. "Maybe. Or maybe it's all a con so big that I can't see the edges. I've already given her a lot of rope on this one."

"You worried she's going to hang herself or that she'll take you down with her?"

"Either. Both." Clinton's head fell back against the dresser with an audible thud. "Ruiz has us under the microscope. So does Hughes. If she puts a foot wrong--" He shook his head. "And it's not just Elizabeth. I don't trust Fiametta. He's already put away one guy, and even if things go according to plan, there's going to be twenty to thirty minutes we don't have eyes on them. If he tries anything with El--" He shook his head. 

Neal leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "You can't give her a separate concealed tracker?"

"There's every chance Fiametta will check for transmitters." Clinton sighed. "We're just going to have to hope El's as good as her reputation says."

He gulped down the rest of the coffee, and they helped each other to their feet. 

"I should shower," said Clinton. "Want to join me?"

"You have to ask?" Neal peeled out of his clothes and looked up to find Clinton watching him, his worries replaced by a more immediate, physical tension. That one, Neal could definitely help with. He smiled. "And afterwards -- you want to borrow my lucky shorts?"

 

*

 

The bible was retrieved, Lucy was at the vet with Steve and Barelli, the White Collar unit had closed another case, and El was... back in her anklet. She tried to settle in at her desk and write up the field report Clinton insisted she produce, but she kept spacing out, seeing Marcus Fiametta's gun aimed at her, hearing it fire, feeling the impact as the bullet embedded itself in the bible, right above her heart. 

It wasn't like this was the first time she'd been shot at, but her professional skillset meant it didn't happen often, and that was one reason she was sitting in the heart of the FBI's Manhattan office, fighting down unaccustomed fury. Because the thing she recalled most vividly was feeling vulnerable that she wasn't wearing her anklet. She'd been so distracted expecting the Feds to move in that she'd lost focus, let her guard slip, and Marcus had actually taken a shot at her. She could have died. And now she really wanted to punch someone -- Fiametta himself, or Clinton for taking so long to show, or herself for being stupid enough to count on him.

That had been a mistake. She wouldn't make it again.

Clinton was in with Hughes, arms folded, shoulders tense, no doubt arguing over who got the credit for the bust -- them or Organized Crime. Everyone else was bustling around like ants, carrying file folders and pieces of paper. She could walk out of here, and no one would notice.

El scowled at her computer screen and went to get a cup of government-issue coffee. She found Burke loitering by the coffee machine.

"Hey," he said. "You okay?"

"Fine," said El shortly. She spooned three sugars into her coffee and stirred it viciously. "Another win for White Collar, right?" She turned to go back to her desk, surprised when Burke followed her. 

"It's a win for you too," he said. "You caught a murderer. It was good work."

"Would've been better work if he hadn't shot at me," muttered El, but her mood was starting to subside. It was nice to know at least one person recognized her contribution.

"That's true." Burke sat on the edge of the desk next to hers. "Any other great Mitchell insights you want to share with the class?"

El cast him a dark look, but he didn't seem like he was making fun of her, and there was something aloof yet protective about the way his body was angled toward her. After the morning she'd had, it was comforting, even if he was a Fed. "Insights," she said, slowly. "Yeah. Not that I'm rethinking my philosophy toward violence or anything, but sometimes it's good to have backup with guns. I just hope next time they're a bit more punctual."

"You know, we ran half a dozen red lights to get to you," said Peter, matter-of-factly. "We were all concerned. Jones yelled at the NYPD chopper pilot when they lost you."

"Really?" El brightened and glanced up at Hughes' office again. Clinton and Hughes were looking at her. She waved. "Traffic violations -- that's something, I guess." She grinned at Burke. "But you know, if they really loved me, they'd let me loose in Fiametta's apartment before ERU moves in. I bet there's a ton of undocumented stuff I could find good homes for."

Burke huffed a laugh and stood up. "I don't have anything worth stealing, but if you want to come over this weekend, I'll clear it with Jones," he said. "Satchmo's been asking after you."

El blinked, but before she could answer, Burke turned and walked away. His ears were pink. El raised a thoughtful eyebrow and watched him retreat. Well, that was an interesting development. And Clinton had been worried about her. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad day after all. She drank a mouthful of coffee, grimaced at its sweetness, took a deep breath and started writing her report.

END


End file.
